


An Interlude and the Ritz

by ConsultingHound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley desperately wants to be cool and suave, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mentions of the gavotte and Eurovision, Missing Scene, Rated teen for swearing, The Ritz waiters ship it, What happened between Armageddon and the bench, and a little bit of what happened after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: 'Aziraphale had been quiet on the bus journey back.Crowley knew this because he spent the entire journey back rambling about that time he introduced the concept of the ring road to humanity.  A road you not only inevitably queued on but also one where you always missed your turn and so had to go all the way back round the same road until you spiralled right into despair?  It was beautiful enough to make a demon cry and hopefully an angel talk.  He would even settle for a gentle chiding.  A “Really Crowley” or an “Honestly”.  However, he was getting nada.  Not even an eyebrow quirk.  Not even a tut. 'A missing scene after the non-end of the world, ending with a dinner at the Ritz.  They not-quite saved the world.  Kisses ensue.  Crowley is unsure how to deal with this situation so the situation deals with him.





	An Interlude and the Ritz

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into writing for a new fandom in a long time. This started as a 1am stream of consciousness which shows I am officially cemented into the fandom. Comments and kudos are, as always, wildly appreciated.

Aziraphale had been quiet on the bus journey back.

Crowley knew this because he spent the entire journey back rambling about that time he introduced the concept of the ring road to humanity.  A road you not only inevitably queued on but also one where you _always_ missed your turn and so had to go all the way back round the same road until you spiralled right into despair?  It was beautiful enough to make a demon cry and hopefully an angel talk.  He would even settle for a gentle chiding.  A “Really Crowley” or an “Honestly”.  However, he was getting nada.  Not even an eyebrow quirk.  Not even a _tut_.  The angel remained distracted; his eyes were unfocused as he stared down the aisle of the bus and his mind was on higher things.  Crowley kept up the chatter anyway.  Not that he was unnerved.  Or in any way uncomfortable.  No he was chill.  The chillest.  He was the goddamn Antarctic baby.  God he hoped Aziraphale was going to interrupt soon.  Even his internal monologue was losing it.

The driver had indeed returned them to London, easier sans wall of fire, and stopped outside Crowley’s apartment building as he had promised.  She then awoke from her autopilot revive and promptly swung the bus back on to the M40 back to Oxford.  It would arrive at 23:47 to the disgruntlement of the passengers, who went as far as to mutter about “writing to the council” as they disembarked.

The demon swung into the lift first, the angel trailing behind.  Well, if they were still demon and angel.  Crowley wasn’t quite sure what they were defined as now.  Officially they were probably going to be referred to as Abominations of the Holiest of Orders, but it was a hell of a mouthful.   _Although_ , if the white-winged mafia upstairs could call them Abomination of the Holiest of Orders Yo, they could be referred to as AHOY which Crowley thought was rather fun, and he was going to tell Aziraphale this as they went through his front door when-

Aziraphale kissed him.

Kissed him!

Right there, in his own bloody doorway.  Six thousand sodding years since “I gave it away!” and Crowley’s world was jolted from its axis, spinning around a new and fascinating light source.  Six thousand years of repressing and coaxing, of bargaining and magic tricks and trying to covertly convey that yes, he did like Aziraphale and yes, he knew there were risks and yes, it was worth it. 

And now this, without a single indication that it was about to happen.  How was he supposed to _prepare_?

The nerve of it! The audacity! The-

Something in Crowley’s mind caught up with the situation, with the hesitant press of Aziraphale’s lips to his, the fact he had his hands in the air, as if touching the no-longer-an-angel would break the spell, and most importantly the fact he had waited for this for a bloody long time so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

As he relaxed, so did Aziraphale, and he swore he could feel the way his angel lit up in that adorable way of his.  It was the same way he seemed to perk up when someone mentioned prophecy books, or French pastry, or he was showing Crowley the moves to the gavotte for the 900th time in the hopes he would learn it.  (He could never let him realise that he _had_ learnt it for fear Aziraphale would stop attempting to teach him.  They could pry the delighted look he was bestowed when he made a correct move from his cold disincorporated form.)

The kiss deepened while Crowley’s train of thought jumped the rails, ran-away, and joined a travelling circus with all the determined nature of an angsty 14 year old.  Luckily, his mind was not necessary for his body to make decisions and so when Aziraphale softly raised one hand to cup Crowley’s jaw and tentatively added his tongue to the mix, he could respond in kind (his hands still in the air of course. He wasn’t an animal).

And then, just when he thought he might be able to fully get on board, Aziraphale leaned back, patted Crowley’s face, and with a soft smile wandered into the depths Crowley’s flat in search of tea.

It was, all in all, A Lot to deal with.  So much so that by the time he came to his senses and went in search of the infuriating bastard, said bastard had a cup of tea in one hand, and was gesticulating with the saucer held in the other as he discussed their adventures from their day of Armageddon prevention with the foliage.

“Oh yes, and your master over there,” and here he helpfully pointed at Crowley for all the plants to see... well sense who was referring to. “Well he did a rather clever trick so we could have a chat with Adam.  A delightful boy, not at all what I was expecting from the Anti-Christ.  I really do hope you get to meet him-“

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, stopping to glare from the doorway. 

“Yes?”

“Please stop talking to the plants.”

“You talk to the plants,” Aziraphale said with a pout.  What sort of a celestial being pouted?

“I terrify the plants into subordination so they never defy me and grow to become the best plants they can be.  I do not chat with them over high tea.”

“I would hardly call this high tea Crowley.  Not a biscuit in sight,” he replied, with a pointed look at the saucer.  A bourbon appeared and, right on cue, Aziraphale gave him that small, secretive smile that was at once ‘oh stop it you’ and ‘do that again’.  If Crowley could blush, that’s the look that would do it. 

Satisfied the plants had been fully informed of the shenanigans, they retired to the living room, Crowley glowering menacingly at the greenery to remind them who was boss.  They did not discuss the kiss.  Instead, with the television puttering on in the background (it was an episode of The Golden Girls.  It was always an episode of The Golden Girls), they discussed what _had_ happened that day pre-kiss and what was _going_ to happen and the myriad of things that happened neither in the near-past nor near-future and a great many, many things that defied time altogether (such as the aforementioned Golden Girls, the merits and pitfalls of cream cheese on bagels, and whose side was responsible for Eurovision).

The note came at midnight.

They had moved onto the stronger beverages and were arguing about Lordi (“Mr Lordi _please_ ” Aziraphale kept insisting) when a spot on the table was suddenly bathed in heavenly light.

“Bloody bright,” Crowley said, squinting through his glasses.  “Dramatic dicks,” he added for good measure, pointing at it with his tumbler.  Aziraphale raised an eyebrow but didn’t technically correct him as he picked up the slip of paper.  He scanned it and politely folded it into quarters and placed it gently in his pocket, and then looked around for his cup.  It was the same cup from the tea but now filled with scotch. 

“Now, where were we?” he said. 

Crowley frowned at him.  He even slid his glasses down his nose to make sure Aziraphale could feel the full force. 

Aziraphale smiled distractedly.  “Oh its nothing,” he said breezily.

“ _Angel_ ,” he warned.  Was it weird to still call him that?  Because for a while (and by while he meant for 5000 years), it was a literal definition, and a secret endearment.  But now that they were- well were they?  Or weren’t they?  Fuck that whiskey was stronger than he remembered. 

Aziraphale glanced over at him.  His shoulder slumped.  “I’ve been summoned,” he said despondently.

Before he could ask further, a hole appeared, as if lava was burning the table, and a wad of paper was spat onto the surface.  Crowley plucked it between his thumb and forefinger and looked at it. 

“Snap,” he said smiling, showing the slip to Aziraphale.  That timing could not be a coincidence.  His friend looked stricken and then resigned. 

“So that’s that then,” he said haltingly.  “Been lovely knowing you, old chap,” he said, with a small, fleeting smile and a salute with his glass.

Crowley scowled at him further.  “What?  You’re just giving up?”

“I prefer to see it as giving in,” Aziraphale said.  Crowley hit him on the arm.  “Ow!  What was that for?”

“You can’t give up.  What was it you said?”  Crowley said, standing up to pace. 

“What I said?” Aziraphale asked, eyes tracking Crowley. 

“You know, the thing!  The thing you said.”  He was gathering quite the speed.

“What thing?”

“The thing!” Crowley said emphatically.  He was a good sight further gone than Aziraphale and it was making him belligerently determined. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ahhh pfffft” Crowley said eloquently, waving a hand at him.  “Whatever it was, it means you’re not giving up.  We stopped Armageddon!”

“The children stopped Armageddon,” Aziraphale pointed out but Crowley carried on undeterred. 

“We fought Satan.”

“No one _fought_ Satan.  _Adam_ faced Satan and altered reality.”“

“Yeah but we were stood really close to him.”

“I will concede that point.”

“Buck up!”

“Hmmm?”

“That’s what you said.  To the, you know, the guy.  Shake- Shakey, something.  That guy.  So that’s what we’re going to do.”

He said it with as much confidence as he could muster which, with a large amount of lovely whiskey inside him, was a lot. 

“Together?” Aziraphale said with a real smile, lifting is cup.  It was soft and squishy and it made Crowley’s insides do something strange, like they were suddenly all liquidy and gooey and squished.  Ridiculous reaction. 

“Together,” he replied, clinking their drinks together. 

And with that, they started to plan.  Scheming was much more Crowley’s forte but when the angel insisted he would be wearing a swimming costume (“I will not lower myself to anything else, the indignity of it, in a room full of demons.”), Crowley couldn’t help but add it to the board. 

The next morning, when it was time to switch, Crowley was very much hoping to repeat yesterday by switching via connected lips, when Aziraphale stuck out his hand and thus crushed Crowley’s spirit.  Perhaps it had been a onetime thing.  However, for better or worse, he was now in charge of Aziraphale’s corporeal form and, as had been proven the previous day he was awfully, terribly, disgustingly fond of Aziraphale’s corporal form and so he was going to do his best to keep it together.  Even if the collar was a bit starchy and there was so much random crap in the pockets it was better to clasp his hands in front of him. 

It was also decidedly strange looking at himself.  His face was the wrong way around for a start.  Secondly, watching his own limb move independent from the feeling was freaking him out. 

“Stop poking at my face,” Aziraphale’s voice said.

“Apologies,” said his own voice.  It was almost too much. 

“Fuck, let’s just get this over with,” he said, heading for the door. 

“I hope you’re not going to use that sort of language in front of Archangel Gabriel.  Then they’ll definitely know what’s up.”

“You’ve said fuck before!”  It was fun swearing in Aziraphale’s voice.  Like seeing a dog on a skateboard- you vaguely knew they had the capacity but it was fun to see it anyway. 

“Very unfrequently!” the angel protested.  “And not in front of the bosses!”

“I promise not to swear in front of Gabby and his pals, so long as you stop talking RP like an upper-class Victorian protagonist.  Just... loosen up a bit.”  Here Crowley waved his arms about.  He had no idea his own face could look so scandalised.  You could even see his eyebrows over his glasses. 

“I am loose, thank you!” Aziraphale snapped. “I am...loosey goosey.”

Crowley pursed his lips to stop himself from laughing.  “Are you now? Oh good, because I was worried the stress was getting to you.”

“It would just be really bad if you were disincorporated.”  Aziraphale said and in that moment he was so Aziraphale that if Crowley had not been looking, he might have forgotten they had body swapped. 

He took pity on him.  “Well it’s not like I want that to happen to you either.  I mean look at what happened last time.  We nearly missed the end of the world.”  This caused Aziraphale to smile which would be endearing in their usual forms.  “So you remember the plan yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  And we meet back on earth at rendezvous 7 at 1800 hours.”

“...Yes.”  Even behind the dark glasses, Crowley could tell Aziraphale was trying to do his best ‘of course I follow old boy’ stare.  It was difficult with snake eyes.

“Bench.  Berkeley Square.”

“Ah, yes, got it.”

He wondered why he bothered sometimes, he truly did. 

So off he went to heaven.  Well, via the very much still standing bookshop.  Which he was delighted was still standing.  Delighted.  Definitely had not been planning for his friend to be living with him in the near future.  They’d get sick of each other after a while.  The angel would leave books and plates and notes everywhere, and he’d want blankets and an armchair and it’d be so annoying and it’s not like he had an original Chesterfield ready to go just in case the occasion arose.  So good.  Bookshop.  Yeah!

And with this delight he went to face the bastards from upstairs.

Oh, they were such a bunch of arseholes.  Smarmy, pious, hypocritical arseholes who were rude and bastards in the bad way and who he hated both before and after his fall.  Imagine looking at Aziraphale, the lovely, charming idiot that he was, and treating him as if he was scum.  They saved the world!  The entire world!  That’s why he savoured the looks on their faces when he stepped into the hell fire.  Take that you bag of dicks.  Fucking fooled you. 

His only regret was that Aziraphale wasn’t there to enjoy it with him but that would have rather defeated the point.

After putting the fear of God into the angelic mafia, meeting on the bench, swapping back into their own corporeal forms, and his angel cheekily way-laying a couple on their way to the Ritz (they received a seat at Claridge’s instead so it wasn’t as if they were hard done by), they sat down to dinner. 

Crowley thought he might even eat something. 

“I still think the light takes credit for Eurovision,” Aziraphale was saying and Crowley wanted it to be known he was really trying to concentrate but-

“Are you going to kiss me again?”  He blurted out.  He immediately wanted to face-plant into the butter tray and slowly suffocate there.

Aziraphale softened immediately.  “Would you like to?” he asked, only slightly primly. 

In response, Crowley leant over carefully and kissed him, chastely and seriously.  This was _important_.  This was their first kiss he was initiating.  It mattered.  The only issue was that the angel was beaming and it made it difficult to convey the solemnity of the moment.

He drew back.  “Stop smiling,” he said, fighting his own lips twitching.

“But I’m _happy_.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, well, just kiss me properly,” he said. 

And so, the angel did.  

The other clientele would later describe it as scandalous, outrageous, and surprisingly adorable.  The wait staff would describe it as a long fucking time coming. 


End file.
